Prohibitions
by Ridgley Warfield
Summary: When Father Mulcahy decides to enlist the help of Hawkeye to get the rest of the camp to give up their vices, he gets more than he bargained for.


Title: Prohibitions

Characters: Father John "Dago Red" Mulcahy and Captain Benjamin Franklin "Hawkeye" Pierce

Rating: M

Genre: Humor/Friendship/Possibly More

Summary: A summer heat wave brings the war to a standstill, leaving the personnel at the 4077th with more downtime than they know what to do with. When Father Mulcahy decides to enlist the help of Hawkeye to get the rest of the camp to give up their vices, he gets more than he bargained for.

Author's Note: Just a bit of silliness to break up writing the gruesomeness of _Thin Red Line_. Don't worry, I haven't given up on that one, I'm just reworking the next installment so that it's as good as the others. As always, this fic is based on the characters portrayed by Rene Auberjonois and Donald Sutherland from _MASH_ (1970), the original film production. Ignore the typos; God knows my brain does.

* * *

Night had fallen on the 4077th MASH unit, but the darkness didn't provide much relief from the sweltering heat of summer. The sun had blazed down on the camp, baking the earth like clay in a kiln. Nary even a breeze had blown through the tent flaps to cool the infernos within. It was too hot for even the fighting on the front lines to continue, and the worst casualties the doctors had seen all week had been an ingrown toenail, a series of heat rashes and dehydration from within their own ranks.

Some would say that it was too hot to do anything except lie around in as little clothing as possible; some had even gone so far as to pry up the wooden planks of plywood flooring in their tents to try and soak up whatever coolness might be lurking in the dirt beneath; but for the camp's chaplain the heat was a blessing—if but a rather uncomfortable one. If there was no fighting, then there were no casualties; if there were no casualties, there was no death. The lack of work, however, was a bit of a catch 22 in the fact that it left the camp's personnel with idle hands. Idle hands, Father John Mulcahy knew, were the devil's playground.

Mulcahy tried to give the men and women he was stationed with activities to busy themselves so that they might stay away from inappropriate avenues of recreation. He'd hosted a bingo night, enlisted the help of the company clerk to procure a movie for movie night, and had even managed to organize a sock hop. While Mulcahy's intentions were always the best, his endeavors never quite panned out the way he'd planned. The movie night had seemed to encourage sessions of heavy petting between members of the opposite sex, and booze had been brought to his sock hop which had ultimately led to half the personnel leaving completely plastered. Mulcahy knew that he couldn't be responsible for what people did in their private lives, but he was the spiritual and moral leader of the camp; it was his duty to set an example. He typically wasn't one to place blame on others, but in this situation, he knew that most of the camp followed the example of three particular doctors—Hawkeye Pierce, Trapper John McIntyre and Duke Forrest. Mulcahy knew if he could convince the three of them to behave for just one week, the rest of the camp would ultimately follow. The problem was figuring out a way to get the three men to play along.

Mulcahy checked his wrist watch. It was just after 8 o'clock. If he was going to find the three doctors and talk to them, he would have to move soon before they lost themselves in the bottom of their still or in some other unsavory pursuit. Mulcahy donned his drab olive general issued jacket, too much of a stickler for rules to put his own personal comfort over army regulations, and left his tent. The night air was thick and hot and still; even the crickets were too hot to chirp.

As he crossed the compound towards the tent at the center of the camp, Mulcahy faltered. He could see through the raised flaps that the doctors were already very much engaged in their own activities. The tent was bustling with people, though from this distance he couldn't quite make out who was in attendance. He knew that if the doctors weren't already drunk, they soon would be, which made his plan moot at this point. They were hard enough to reason with sober, God forbid he try and convince them to behave themselves whilst they were intoxicated.

Watching the scene in the tent, the priest warred with himself internally on what to do. Part of him was arguing he should just walk away and wait until another time, but the other part was saying he should at least try. If he couldn't corner them all at once, then maybe he could start with their ringleader. Mulcahy wondered just how drunk Hawkeye was at that point. While the surgeon generally had quite the mean streak in the way of jokes, pranks, and raising hell against having been drafted, Mulcahy had seen—on rare occasions—a gentler side to the man. Though Hawkeye was sure to deny it, Mulcahy had seen how understanding he could be, how much he genuinely cared for people. It would be that part of Hawkeye that Mulcahy would prey upon.

Timidly resuming his course, Mulcahy didn't bother knocking on the tent door, knowing he wouldn't be heard over the din. His presence was vaguely noticed as he stood in the doorway. A couple of the nurses looked at him and smiled, but quickly went back to their conversations and drinks. Mulcahy briefly scanned the tight space to take note of who was in attendance, and who he might be hearing confessions from later. He heard a peal of laughter off to his left and looked down to see one of the nurses sitting next to Hawkeye on his bunk. Her bare feet were stretched across the small space of the tent to where they rested in the lap of Trapper McIntyre, who seemed to be tickling her toes. Hawkeye, holding a martini in one hand and a cigarette in the other, was looking on in quiet amusement. Mulcahy seized the moment and leaned over just enough to tap Hawkeye on the shoulder.

The blonde man looked over, bumping the brim of his bucket hat up above his eyes to clear his field of vision as he peered up at the chaplain. Mulcahy crooked his finger at Hawkeye and nodded his head towards the door, indicating for the doctor to follow him. Hawkeye handed his drink to the nurse on his left, then followed Mulcahy outside.

"Christ Dago, it's a million degrees out here; why the hell are you wearing a jacket? Aren't you hot?"

"Oh…well, yes, but—"

"Look, the army can tell you that you have to be here, but they can't regulate what you wear when it's hot enough to make the devil sweat." Hawkeye said as he held his cigarette between his lips and started to push Mulcahy's jacket off his shoulders, tugging it free of his arms and leaving the priest in a black t-shirt and trousers. "See, isn't that better?"

"Yes…thank you." Mulcahy said, catching the jacket as Hawkeye tossed it at him. "Listen, Hawkeye, I was hoping that I might talk to you about something for a minute."

"Sure, babe. What is it?" Hawkeye leaned against a support beam holding up the tent, taking a long drag on his cigarette as he regarded the man in front of him.

Mulcahy's eyes flicked to the crowd gathered inside the tent. "Can we go somewhere a little quieter; more private?"

Hawkeye looked only mildly put out as he gestured for Mulcahy to lead the way, but rather than head back to his tent, Mulcahy meandered along the main road that cut through the compound. Hawkeye fell in step beside the priest, flicking his cigarette to the ground and shoving his hands in his pockets as he waited for the man to talk.

"I'm sure you know that this heat wave has the entire war at a standstill right now."

"Yeah, I wish they'd call the whole thing off on account of it being too damn hot and just send us all home where we belong." Hawkeye grouched.

"Yes…well, needless to say that hasn't happened yet." Mulcahy stated, looking at the surgeon for a long moment before he continued. "All of this downtime has me a little…concerned."

"Concerned?" Hawkeye asked with a slight laugh. "Not sure what to do with yourself, Dago?"

"Oh, it's not me I'm worried about." Mulcahy paused as he tried to think of the best way to phrase his thought. "Part of my duties as chaplain include acting as the moral compass of the camp, helping to guide people on a more…wholesome path."

Hawkeye tried to stifle a laugh, snorting softly. "No offense, Dago, but I don't think there's much you can do in that area. People are going to get drunk and fool around and gamble, and whatever else they want to do to pass the time that they're in this hellhole. When they need you, they'll come to confession."

The priest tried not to take insult, and pressed on. "That's why I need your help."

Hawkeye came to a halt, giving the priest a skeptical look. "My help? What do you expect me to do? I'm certainly not going to confess."

"Well…I was hoping to convince you, Trapper and Duke to perhaps cut out the drinking, gambling and womanizing…just until the heat wave passes and there's not so much idle time. The three of you can help influence the others in the camp."

Hawkeye blinked slowly behind the lenses of his glasses, obviously torn between outrage and hilarity. "Are you nuts? Dago, if you take away any _one_of those things, you'll have a bunch of very disgruntled people on your hands. Take away all three, and you'll have an all-out riot…with me, Trap and Duke leading the picket line!"

"I know it sounds crazy, Hawkeye, but it's only temporary…and it's for the good of everyone here."

"Listen, babe," Hawkeye said, laying his hand on the priest's shoulder as he tried to reason with the holy man. "I get what you're trying to do, but I'm telling you it's not going to happen. You can't force people to lead the kind of life _you_ want them to have."

Mulcahy let his face redden in embarrassment, playing his hand carefully and hoping he appeared as naïve and do-gooding as everyone considered him to be. "I just thought…"

Hawkeye squeezed his shoulder. "I know; you're just trying to be a 'moral compass,' but no one's getting hurt and no one's being forced to do anything they don't want to, so…just leave it alone. You've still got a few good sheep here, Dago. Tend to them."

Mulcahy dropped his head forward. "It was stupid of me to ask…I'm sorry."

Hawkeye's arm slipped around Mulcahy's shoulders and he led him back towards the party in his tent. "Have you ever heard the saying 'if you can't beat them, join them?' Come and have a few drinks with us and relax for a while. You're entitled to have a little time off too, you know."

"Thanks," Mulcahy said with calculated dejection, slipping out from under Hawkeye's arm. "But I can't. I'm sorry I bothered you, Hawkeye."

Mulcahy heard Hawkeye sigh as the priest started to sulk away. "Dago…wait."

The chaplain smiled softly before sobering his expression as he turned to face the doctor. Hawkeye seemed to be warring with himself for a long moment and finally sighed again in resignation. "Look, I can't promise anything…but I'll see if I can get to others to agree to keep it all within moderation. Deal?"

Mulcahy beamed, pleased that his ploy had worked. "Thank you, Hawkeye."

"They're all going to want to know why, you know. What am I supposed to tell them?"

Mulcahy thought for a long moment but came up empty. He hadn't thought that far ahead.

Hawkeye considered the problem quietly when the chaplain gave him a blank stare. "Get me a couple of passes to Tokyo. I'll tell everyone it's a contest or something. Might not keep everyone from being a saint, but it will encourage a few, at least."

"Thank you, Hawkeye." Mulcahy said again, his smile returning.

Hawkeye thrust an accusatory finger at Mulcahy. "Don't think I won't throw you under the bus if they get mutinous."

"I'll take full responsibility." Mulcahy promised, holding two fingers up to give his Scout's honor.

Hawkeye shook his head. "You're impossible to say 'no' to, Dago. Do you know how infuriating that is?"

Mulcahy simply smiled and offered an even more infuriating shrug. "It's a benefit of being a priest."

"And you certainly exploit it." Hawkeye teased.

"Only when necessary." He admitted with feigned conceit.

"You owe me." Hawkeye finally said, shaking his head as he headed back towards the Swamp.

Mulcahy watched the doctor disappear inside the tent, but couldn't hear what Hawkeye told the others at the gathering that gained a groan of dismay followed by an exodus of nearly half the inhabitants only mere moments later. He smiled softly, then returned to his own tent to try and plan some "safe" activities to get them all through the prohibition period.

Sometime after ten o'clock, however, there was a swift knock on Mulcahy's door. Before he could even open his mouth to beckon the caller in, the door swung open and Hawkeye stepped in holding out a bottle of gin as if in offering. Mulcahy looked from the bottle to Hawkeye, hoping for an explanation.

"After much deliberation," Hawkeye said. "The boys and I decided that the best way to defeat the temptation was to restrict our access to it. We have come to place our most sacred possessions in your care."

"We?" Dago asked with a slight laugh as he stood up, trying to see around Hawkeye through the still-open doorway. There was a line in the compound of people carrying various types of alcohol and other items. Dago was more than a little surprised.

"I hope you can get those passes, Dago," Hawkeye muttered conspiratorially as he placed the gin in Mulcahy's hands. "Otherwise they're going to lynch us both."

"Yes…I think you might be right about that." Mulcahy swallowed dryly. "Why keep everything here though?"

"Because no one will steal from a priest and we know you won't fall off the wagon. It's the safest place in Korea."

"You underestimate people in desperation."

"Are you being cynical?" Hawkeye laughed, eyeing the priest with amusement.

"Just realistic." Mulcahy smirked softly.

Hawkeye simply laughed. "Alright, where do you want all of this?"

"Oh…" Mulcahy looked around for some place to stash the goods, then flipped open his footlocker, tossing several items onto his cot. "I suppose we'll fit what we can in here. I'll keep a list of who brought what so that it all goes back to its proper owner."

"Good thinking, Padre." Hawkeye went to the door and told everyone to deposit their belongings in Mulcahy's footlocker, then he acted as a bouncer letting people in one at a time so that Mulcahy could keep track of every pledge. When the last person left, Mulcahy's footlocker was filled to the brim with booze and pornography, and was spilling out along one side of his tent. The chaplain looked completely overwhelmed.

"Heaven forbid the Military Vicar's Office send someone to pay me a visit or inspect my tent."

Hawkeye chuckled and clapped Mulcahy on the shoulder. "Sure you can handle the temptation, Dago?"

The chaplain cast a shrewd look at the doctor. "I'm sure I'll manage."

Hawkeye moved some of the books Mulcahy had tossed on the cot and sat himself on the edge of the priest's bed as Dago tried to manhandle the locker closed.

"How'd you manage to convince them all so fast, Hawkeye?" The chaplain asked, sitting on the lid to add some weight.

"A chance to get out of this shithole for 3 days? Right now people would cut off their own arm for a shot at that."

"And what happens if no one caves in and everyone stays on the wagon?"

Hawkeye considered the question thoughtfully, knowing he himself was in that boat too. "Well, I guess this war will be a little dryer and a little more sexually frustrating."

Mulcahy couldn't stop the laugh that bubbled out of him, and gave up on closing his footlocker. He stood up and turned to face Hawkeye.

Hawkeye watched a bead of sweat trickle down from Mulcahy's hairline. "Christ, Dago, why don't you raise the flaps of your tent? It's a damn oven in here."

"Oh…well, I can't, really. This place is used for confessions and if the flaps are up, it deters people from coming."

"Get a lot of confessions at night, do you?"

"Well, no…but I don't like sleeping where others can see me."

"Why not?"

"It just doesn't feel right."

"So you'd rather sit in this sweatbox?"

"I'd rather there not be a need for this at all," Mulcahy said, gesturing to the tent as if gesturing to the entire army, or even the entire war.

The two were quiet for a long moment as Hawkeye regarded the other man. Mulcahy had always been an oddity to Hawkeye. A quiet, timid man, Mulcahy rarely ever sought companionship with anyone in the camp, though he was friendly to everyone. He was a decent man who genuinely cared for others, and went out of his way to ensure their wellbeing—which was probably where this crackpot idea of his had come from to begin with. Mulcahy was good to a fault, naïve to an even greater fault, so how did someone as good and innocent as John Mulcahy end up in a place like this?

"Have you ever done anything crazy, Dago?" Hawkeye asked as Mulcahy sat at his desk.

"Depends on your definition of crazy," Mulcahy replied, tucking the list of items and donors into a drawer.

"For you? Anything out of the ordinary."

Mulcahy laughed softly, but glanced over at Hawkeye with a slight smirk. "Well, they don't call me 'Dago Red' for nothing, you know."

Hawkeye waited for Mulcahy to elaborate, which the priest was clearly not going to do without prompting. "Well?"

"I once got drunk on sacramental wine before giving mass." Mulcahy said by way of explanation.

"That's no way to tell a story, Dago. I need details!"

Mulcahy laughed. "It was a long time ago, Hawkeye."

"And yet you still go by Dago Red. Come on…tell me. You owe me, remember?"

"You really want to call your favor in on the story of my nickname?" Dago chuckled in amusement.

"Okay, no, but I still want to know."

Mulcahy laughed again. "I had just been ordained, fresh out of seminary, and was about to give my very first mass celebration. I was a jumble of nerves, shaking so badly I could hardly hold onto anything. I knew I couldn't go out in front of the congregation in that state, but the only 'cure' so to speak was the decanter of sacramental wine. I must have gulped down a third of the decanter, but—as you must know—alcohol doesn't take an immediate effect on the body. It wasn't until I was half-way through mass that it took hold. By the time I finished presenting the offering, I was so drunk I couldn't see straight. I had almost made it through the entire service without being sick, but during the recessional, I vomited on Mrs. Irma Harrington—an 86 year old grandmother of three."

Hawkeye roared with laughter, making Mulcahy's cheeks turn a faint shade of pink though he laughed softly as well as he continued. "I'll never forget that day so long as I live. I was absolutely mortified. The bishop that presided over our diocese was _not_ amused in the slightest; though one of the deacons at the church thought it was hysterical. He's the one who took to calling me 'Dago Red,' which was the type of wine used for the sacraments. He often referred to me in front of the congregation as 'Father Red,' though I'm not sure any of them ever understood the reference, and simply thought he was referring to my red hair and Irish roots."

"Why do you still go by it? No one here knows that story, do they?"

"Some of the boys who've been here as long as I have asked me once if I had any nicknames, so I told them the story I just told you. Like you and Deacon Gallagher, they also found it to be quite hilarious and simply refused to call me anything but Dago Red from that point on. The story quickly got around the camp, so by that point I knew trying to retract that tidbit of information was impossible. It was simply easier to let them call me Dago Red, and to introduce myself as such to anyone new who came into the camp. Most people—like you—often laughed at the name, but dismissed any curiosity of its origin. Some people did ask, and some—also like you—have later inquired about it."

"I have to say," Hawkeye chuckled. "For you, that sounds pretty wild. What else have you done?"

"Honestly, that's the highlight—or lowlight, I suppose—of my life."

"No wild orgies? Nothing?"

"I'm afraid not," Mulcahy chuckled.

"Never even been kissed?"

Mulcahy faltered just long enough to pique Hawkeye's interest and the doctor sat forward, eager to hear that story as well. Mulcahy stayed him with his hand, however. "I wasn't always a priest, Hawkeye. I've…courted before; kissed on occasion, but that's truly the extent of my…physical pursuits."

"Don't you miss it? Don't you ever think about it?"

"I'm a man; of course I do."

"Christ, I could never be a priest." Hawkeye said, lying back on Mulcahy's bunk as he stared up at the canvas ceiling.

When Hawkeye said nothing more, Mulcahy assumed the conversation was over and returned to his brainstorming of ideas for activities. If the doctor's continued presence wasn't strange, his line of questioning certainly had been, but Mulcahy let it go. His past was no secret, surely, but curiosity in this area shouldn't be encouraged, least he lose some of his standing as a moral and spiritual leader.

"So…are you still a virgin then?"

Mulcahy sighed and brought a hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose. "Hawkeye…"

The snort of laughter made the priest look over as Hawkeye got back to his feet. "Just kidding, Dago." The doctor clapped Mulcahy on the shoulder. "Remember…when this idea of yours goes to shit, you'll be the one on the chopping block."

"Thank you for your vote of confidence." The chaplain said with wry sarcasm.

The surgeon grinned and pushed his way out of the tent.

* * *

Mulcahy's first camp-wide event was a luau. Clever as always, Radar had managed to trade several bottles of castor oil in exchange for several party favors and decorations. He'd somehow even managed to convince HQ supply that the camp needed a ham for a general who had requested it. The latter acquisition had been garnered with a lie, but Mulcahy decided to feign ignorance for the sake of moral. A good meal and good, clean fun would go a long way in lifting people's spirits. If one pig, deceitfully obtained, had to be the sacrifice, so be it.

Several corpsmen had found a large circular tin drum able to accommodate about six adults, and had filled it with water to create a make-shift pool, which was one of the biggest highlights in the dead heat. Mulcahy smiled broadly as he looked around at the personnel enjoying the food, friendship and fun—each of them wearing a silk lei that had come along with the favors from Radar's trade. He was extremely pleased that not a drop of alcohol had been needed for the men and women to have a good time, and everyone seemed to be behaving appropriately.

An arm came to rest on the priest's shoulder and Mulcahy looked over to see Hawkeye Pierce looking over the crowd as he used the chaplain as a leaning post. "Good job, Dago. This was a fantastic idea."

Mulcahy beamed at the praise. "I'm glad everyone's having a good time."

"I wonder though," the doctor continued with a slight smirk. "Don't you think you've set the bar a little high?"

Mulcahy furrowed his brows. "How do you mean?"

"Your opening event is a luau—pool...pork...leis—seems to me that people are going to be expecting bigger things to come."

"Oh…" Mulcahy trailed off, his smile sliding downward into a soft frown. "I hadn't considered that."

Hawkeye guffawed next to Mulcahy. "Who knows, maybe the fighting will pick back up and you'll be able to make this a one-off and we can all go back to boozing and broads."

The chaplain gave the surgeon of a look of reproach. "That's a terrible thing to hope for, Hawkeye."

"Relax, Dago; I'm only kidding." Hawkeye said, having the decency to look mildly apologetic. "Really though, I wasn't convinced you could keep people content without their vices, but we all seem to be clinging to the wagon, if but barely."

"Or more likely the shot at getting a 3-day pass." The chaplain proposed a little disparagingly.

Hawkeye shrugged, taking the comment in stride, "When a miracle happens, do you question the reasons behind it?"

The priest sighed heavily and looked back out at his flock. "No…I suppose I don't."

"Then consider this a victory, Dago. It's been 3 days and this camp has been as dry as a dessert and as sexless as a nun. Even Painless' poker games have come to a temporary halt and the boys are playing gin instead."

"Yes, that's true," Mulcahy said meekly, glancing over at Hawkeye again. "I have you to thank, Hawkeye. I could never have convinced the camp to go sober on my own."

"Don't think I'm doing it for nothing, babe," Hawkeye waggled a finger. "You still owe me."

"I haven't forgotten."

* * *

TBC


End file.
